Sailing from Plymouth

Feeling Boxy

My house is a box,
And so is my room.
A coffin’s a box,
And so is a tomb.

I’m boxed in my car,
And I work in a cube.
I drive through the tunnel,
Or ride on the Tube.

I hate tunnel vision,
And shortness of breath;
If I weren’t on a mission
I’d sooner face death.

Guess I’ll step in the ring,
And then box my way out;
As the newly-crowned champ,
I’ll be in with a shout.

Do you fancy a round?
Then climb into the ring.
It’s the Boxer Rebellion,
All the way to Beijing.

Like a half-opened present
On Boxing Day morn,
I’ll wait for some interest
Till the paper is torn.

Then climb on a boxcar,
For a life on the rails,
And won’t change my boxers
Till true love prevails.